


you're definitely better than this

by telekinesiskid



Series: Tadam [2]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: 10 Years Later trope, M/M, POV Second Person, pseudo-corporate culture, references to past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-07 21:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11632707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinesiskid/pseuds/telekinesiskid
Summary: You haven’t thought about Tad Carruthers in the last ten or so years since you told him to fuck off. But, if you had, you would’ve thought his hairstyle might evolve at the very least.(Or, 10 years after their break-up, Adam is doing Just Fine while Tad is... also fine, but a hot mess)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> why can't i just leave well enough alone, why do i have to take what's fine and perfect on it's own and push it out with unnecessary dumb sequels?
> 
> anyway, he's a very self-indulgent thing that i've been picking at for a few months now and will probably continue to pick at...... don't know how many people were ever actually here for *tadam* but, oh well,, if this appeals to anyone, then awesome; if not, then all the best xx

You’ve come far. You’ve come so, so far.

You haven’t seen your folks in years. You still receive the odd letter. The same bits of thin discoloured paper that have been just sitting in a drawer for decades, words shifting from blue to black to blue again as pens dry out and turn into a rare commodity. Since you started work, these letters have only ever been thinly-veiled attempts to guilt you into sharing your income. Funny how they only wanted to reconnect with you and be a family again once they heard you’d landed a paid internship straight out of college. Always signed ‘much love, your mother and father’, but you’ve yet to see your father’s hand anywhere. You doubt he even knows your mother sends them.

You’ve only ever read them once; each one is tucked into a blank folder in the bottom of your dresser and never been revisited. You’re not quite at the point where you can bring yourself to bin them and never look back, but maybe soon. You hardly ever think about them anymore. Occasionally someone raises their hand too suddenly, or some drunkard barks out a slur from across the street, but you only flinch on instinct, just a hard-wired response you’re still in the long slow process of unlearning. But your head isn’t filled with the sound of hinges bursting and bottles breaking anymore, nor the smell of ash and sweat and beer. You don’t see flashes of your father’s ruddy, snarling face, your mother’s staunch shadow in the doorframe. Maybe, within another year or two, you will have forgotten what they look like completely.

The closest you’ll ever get to your Henrietta roots now is D.C., and recently you moved there to join a new civil construction company. Years and years of stress and toil in university have finally paid off and now, fresh out of a junior position, you get to earn roughly eighty thousand per annum, contracted by an engineering firm that gains more and more traction with every year. Even after all the summer research scholarships and student allowances and part-time jobs, you still left university dirt-poor and with a student loan debt that dangled over your head like a sword. But since you’ve been gainfully employed, each year a little more of that fat debt is shaved off.

For a while, you used to just sit back every now and then and think, _I made it. I made it._

You’ve been making it for so long now that you barely even have to think about it anymore.

You don’t think about what life could’ve been if you hadn’t upturned the natural order of things and dared to want something more for yourself. You don’t think about being stuck back in Henrietta, about having graduated from high school the top of your class, only to have it go no further than a pat on the back and a book voucher. You don’t think about the shitty car you would’ve owned, to drive to your parents’ trailer every Sunday for a tense, silent lunch. You don’t think about the girls you would’ve dated, or the boys you would’ve wanted to date. You don’t think about your then-inevitable career as a mechanic.

And you _definitely_ don’t think about Tad Carruthers.

Until, one day, he spills his drink on you.

To his credit, you don’t believe it was intentional; he clearly didn’t know anyone was in line behind him at the coffee stand, just as you didn’t know that the brash, impatient man in front of you was the boy who almost tried to ruin your life. It wouldn’t be entirely truthful to say that he backed up, turned, and bumped right into you, because that would imply he did so at the reasonable, predictable pace of a man who was just handed coffee, and you had the foresight to anticipate his moves and get out of his way. Instead he practically bull-rushed at you, and the only justice served is that most of the drink landed on his shirt instead of yours. But a good chunk of it still did.

Stumbling back, you pull the coffee-stained shirt away from your skin. It scalds, and you panic, because you really don’t want to have to take a trip to the ER at one o’clock on a Wednesday, but the more you pat yourself down with serviettes offered by helpful strangers, the more it seems to cool down. You check between the buttons but your skin is only a little patchy and red; you’ve heard before that baristas lower the temperature of their ruder patrons’ drinks and think that’s probably what happened here. The man’s rudeness saved you from severe burns, but then the man’s rudeness is what caused him to spill coffee on you in the first place.

You look up at him to find he’s still grunting and batting at the wet stains on his shirt like a man on fire. You’re about to tell him in the most condescending way that he’ll live; you’re milliseconds away from opening your mouth, and then realization strikes you like a bolt to the chest, like a punch to the throat.

_God,_ you think, your brain a panicked overload, grappling blindly for coherency, scrambling to remember who you are and what you’ve accomplished and all that you’ve left behind. _He… still has a pompadour._

He gives his shirt one last rub – you’re not entirely sure what help he thinks that is; he only seems to be smearing the stain – before his dark eyes flash up, and he doesn’t even need the couple of seconds you do to remember your face. He was no doubt about to rip into you, but he just _looks_ at you and instantly all the anger and embarrassment and rudeness pales out of his face, leaving only a recognition so stark and surprised it continues to knock the breath out of you. For a moment more, it’s all you can do to just… stare back.

You haven’t thought about Tad Carruthers in the last ten or so years since you told him to fuck off. But, if you had, you would’ve thought his hairstyle might evolve at the very least.

_“Parrish?”_ he spits, aghast, and hearing him say your name like that again, after all these years, brings you crashing back to reality. You look at him, not as Tad Carruthers, but as the man who rammed into you and spilt hot coffee all down your front. You’d hoped you could enjoy a nice drink in the food court as you revised some notes for this afternoon’s meeting, but now you have to worry about finding something clean to wear.

You don’t even address him as ‘Carruthers’ in the cold way you once did, when it had felt so, _so_ good to be just as horrible to him as he had consistently, unrelentingly been to you. Instead you allow yourself a sweeter satisfaction and turn away from him without any acknowledgment whatsoever. You walk away, like there’s no shared history beyond this afternoon inconvenience.

But he doesn’t let you leave. He doesn’t grab your arm like you had half-expected – dozens of memories are flooding back to you now and amongst them are the sheer number of times he _grabbed_ you – but you hear the sound of him running up behind you, slam-dunking a ruined coffee into the trashcan. You feel him come up beside you and your instinct is to walk faster.

“Parrish,” he says, dipping his head forward to see your face. He’s so aggressively trying to meet your eye he’s not even looking where he’s going; people on their cell phones or with humongous bags are bashing into him, because he’s in the way, and if there’s one thing Tad Carruthers can still do well, it’s being in the way. _“Parrish,”_ he repeats, more demanding, and sure his voice has deepened a little bit, but his tone is no less obnoxious than you remember.

And then: “Adam.”

It takes you by surprise. More the fact that he thinks you were maybe waiting for the _right_ address before you acknowledged him, and not that you weren’t planning to respond at all, and were in fact just going to walk into the nearest men’s store and purchase a new shirt with a desperate little man following you around. But, now that you think about, that just sounds like it would be more annoying than peevishly satisfying.

You finally look at him, and you’re a little bit disturbed to see that he’s still looking at you the way he did back in Aglionby. Like a full decade has passed but he’s still hopelessly, helplessly in love with you.

“It’s… It’s nice to see you,” he says, and the earnestness sounds a little forced, but it’s definitely there. “How are you?”

“…Not great,” you say. You smile something irked and cold. “Some asshole split coffee all over me.”

“Fuck—sorry.” He looks down at his own shirt and it does nothing to help him ease through the tide of people walking straight at him. “Mine too. Hey listen—my place is like five minutes away from here; you could come back and borrow a clean shirt.”

He juts his thumb in an unfamiliar direction and you raise a hand to mean ‘no thanks’ and also maybe ‘leave me alone’. The absolute last place you want to be is in Tad’s inner-city penthouse, wearing his clothes. You’re not seventeen anymore. “I’d rather just buy a new one.”

“I’ll pay for it.”

“This might come as a surprise to you,” you grit out, “but I have my own money now.”

He either doesn’t hear you, or perhaps thinks you’re bluffing, because when you next glance over he’s fished out his wallet and is pulling out bunches of fifties. He tries to hold it out to you like it’s not the most insulting thing in the world; you shove his hand away.

“I told you I don’t need your money.”

“So what? Just take it.”

It’s almost funny. It’s not, though, it’s really not – it’s actually sort of upsetting how little he’s changed and how much he thinks he can preface all of the same toxic bullshit with a ‘how are you’ – but you somehow find it in you to laugh anyway. “Fuck you, Tad. Do you think if I’ll take your money I’ll feel indebted to you and we’ll just, fall into our old ways? You’re not paying me for sex anymore.”

He makes a face like he just got slapped, and it comes out about as red too. “I—I’m not— _why the fuck would I want that?”_

You shake your head, not looking at him. You know you’re not wrong. “Why else would you be talking to me?”

He stops walking and, against your better judgement, you look back. He looks… furious. Or on the brink of tears. Maybe both. “You know what, fuck _you,_ Parrish. Has it ever fucking occurred to you that maybe I feel _bad_ about the way I treated you? Did it ever occur to you that maybe I want to make it up to you somehow? Like how about buying you a new _shirt!?”_

You suppose, in many ways, you’re thankful for your time with Tad Carruthers. There are many entitled, selfish pricks in the world – rich or not – and you have long since learned to deal with their tantrums and manipulation tactics. Roommates, partners, tutors, colleagues, bosses – you know what people like that talk like and act like because you remember the way Tad was, on some intuitive level. So, for that – the ability to spot an asshole and an abuser a mile away – you are in fact grateful for Tad Carruthers. The rest, though, can take a long walk off a short pier.

Your skin feels every bit as hot as the light burn on your chest, but you keep your voice patient and even. “You are not going to make it up to me by buying me a damn shirt I can already afford. Especially if you’re the one who ruined it in the first place.”

And with that, you turn to disappear into the lunch rush, and Tad is out of your life once more. You hope it stays that way.

But, of course, you’re wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi, my Corporate Culture wife informs me this is *very rude* behaviour from Adam, like "Adam, the project manager wants to see you about your problematic responses to the client" behaviour. also hello i'm mostly just winging this business stuff, please give me a lot of leeway x')
> 
> y'all are rockstars for supporting me, but a particular rockstar of note is [kiiouex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiouex/pseuds/kiiouex) who beta'd this and also is killing it with pynchweek rn, go check her out

In hindsight, maybe you should’ve been worried. If you were close enough in a city populated by millions to buy coffee from the same stand at the same corner at the _same time,_ then it was surely an indication that your workplaces were nearby. You don’t know what you were thinking. Maybe you thought he was a casual freelancer, who only ventured out of his penthouse for a coffee every now and then. Maybe you thought he was still a student, on his sixth year of a three-year economics degree. Maybe the idea of imaging what Tad was doing with his life was just too annoying to contemplate and so you shunted all thoughts of Tad aside in preparation for your meeting.

You’re sitting with your colleague Jim, being treated to complimentary cups of expresso by smartly-dressed PAs, when someone blunders in with about as much grace as the man who ruined your shirt. The exact same, in fact.

You lock eyes with Tad for the second time in so many hours, and at least he looks about as pained as you feel. “Uh… Mr Parrish and Mr,” he consults the print-outs he’s holding, “Jefferson— I’m Tad Carruthers, I’m filling in for Jan today.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Jim greets in earnest as he stands and reaches out to shake Tad’s hand. Tad turns to you, hand still half-out to shake yours, and you reluctantly let him. You’re not at all surprised to feel that his handshake is about as sloppy and uncomfortable as handling a raw egg. Jim asks, “What happened to Jan? Is she well?”

Tad blinks. “What? Oh yeah, she’s fine, she’s just busy. But, uh, she left me with a… some things.” Tad waves the papers he’s holding, smiling something sheepish and unqualified, and part of you wants to just walk out. It’s a cruel, _cruel_ universe that you can work as hard as you do, and Tad as little as he does, only for him to still have that bit more seniority over you.

But, you are nothing if not scathingly professional. You settle back with Jim and sip at your expresso and let Tad rustle through a dozen or so papers with the panicked demeanour of a man who has had them all morning and still hasn’t read them yet. The only words he has to say for several whole minutes are “sorry” and “excuse me while I, uh” and you can already see his brow start to sweat. You turn a sly ‘I am so embarrassed by this lack of professionalism’ look onto Jim, who delights you in slyly returning it.

Part of you wants to see Tad Carruthers, with all his power and authority, blunder through this meeting with less competency than an untrained intern, but mostly you just want to do your job.

“Sorry,” he says one last time before clearing his throat and reading select words off a page. “So… we’re hiring you to build a… building, for us, and… uh, we have a list of requirements and specifications here, so…” He slides one piece of paper forward and taps it, as if it holds all the answers. You had rather hoped he would _present_ something, especially since one look at the paper confirms that most of it is in note form.

“I have a few questions,” you say, in the kind of voice that makes Tad squirm defensively, “about the project.”

Tad looks at you like he would really rather you didn’t.

“…Is it even worth asking you or should I just call Jan?”

“Uh, no, that’s…” Tad scrambles for a working pen before turning over the paper. You suppose he’s eager to look important, somehow, and to convince the office that this meeting wasn’t a complete waste of everyone’s time. “Just tell me, I’ll write them down.”

You don’t make it easy for him. It’s true that, while he may hold a position in his company more senior than yours, your rigorous training and study has unlocked a whole barrage of specialised terms and jargon that only other civil engineers could ever hope to make sense out of, let alone spell correctly. You even word your questions in the most unnecessary, obnoxious, intimidatingly convoluted ways you can think of, which would make _you_ look bad on a regular panel full of professionals, but leaves Tad Carruthers practically shaking.

He barely writes several words. “Uh… could you repeat… actually, you know what?” He sets down his pen and pushes the first of the document over to you. He points at Jan’s email – which you and Jim already have, since that’s all _your_ correspondence with her – and says in a resigned voice, “I think if you have any, uh, complicated questions, you’re better off asking Jan directly, and then, uh… my people will get in touch with your people.”

“So this consultation was entirely pointless then?” you flat-out ask, and immediately regret it, because it only forced Jim to shelter Tad’s ego.

“No, no, Adam, not at all,” Jim says, more to Tad than to you, reassuring, “It’s good that we got to meet at least one face involved in the project.”

You shoot Tad a look like you _really,_ really hope not to have to work with him in this two to three-year long project, and he withers in his seat.

“We’ve… met before,” Tad says, looking right at you.

Jim’s eyes widen. “Oh yeah? You two know each other?”

You’re halfway to shaking your head and telling Jim that it’s a story no one wants to hear when Tad pipes, “We went to school together.”

“Oh! What school?”

You sigh. “Aglionby. Virginia.”

“You two used to be friends, or…?”

Tad speaks again before you do: “Yeah, we were real good mates.”

You level a look heavy with scepticism at Tad. You can’t believe this. Years and years ago, Tad acted like he’d be persecuted if he was even so much as caught coughing in your direction, and now he’s acting like you were mates— _good_ mates at that. If Jim weren’t with you right now, you suspect this meeting would turn ugly and unprofessional real quick.

“If there’s nothing about the project we can discuss,” you say tersely, standing up. “Then Jim and I need to get going. Next time, call ahead to schedule if Jan, or anyone else who knows what the hell they’re talking about, can’t make the meeting.”

“Adam,” Jim chastises you quietly.

Tad nods, nervous, red-faced, a child scolded by a teacher. “OK, sure… just so you know, it was kind of late notice, so… As I said, our people will get in touch with your people.”

You wonder if he overheard that phrase from some early 00’s blockbuster with only the barest sliver of pseudo-business, and now he parrots it in every meeting he is drastically too inexperienced and unprepared for. You want to leave, and you make that very clear by picking up your own notes, ignoring Tad’s, and walking out of the room. Behind you, Jim says awkwardly, “It was nice to meet you, Tad,” and follows you out.

In the elevator you don’t say a word, just collecting your thoughts, and Jim waits until it’s just the two of you in there before he grumbles, “Man, the energy in that room sucked. This is a big client, Adam; just because they send some joker in to talk to us, doesn’t mean you can’t be polite.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” you say, and you do mean it. “I just… hate him so much.”

“I thought you said you were mates?”

You roll your eyes. “The sad part is he probably did think that. We weren’t.”

The elevator opens and you stride out. The sound of success sounds an awful lot like good shoes crossing a marble-floored atrium. A few seconds pass as Jim tries his best to cobble together a picture of your friendship. “Ohhh, I get it; he was your lackey, right? Your errand boy?”

Your mouth quirks into a smile. It’s honest-to-god proof of how much you’ve changed to have someone who never knew you in high school assume you were every bit as confident and cool and in control as you are now. You’ll carry that past self with you until the day you die, if only as a reminder of how far you’ve come.

And yet here Tad Carruthers was, back in your life, reminding you just how much you let him step all over you for a cheeseburger and a place to sleep.

Your work cell buzzes just as you step back into your office, twenty minutes later. Unknown sender, it reads: _Hey you left some of the notes behind – come back and get them? We can grab a drink._

You close your eyes and take a deep breath.

The notes you left behind had your number. Of course.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me over at [tumblr](http://telekinesiskid.tumblr.com/)


End file.
